


Red and Grey

by mithrel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blanket Permission, Hate Sex, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Rough Sex, Truth Spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1599890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mithrel/pseuds/mithrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Teen Wolf Spring Break Assignment, for girlfromcarolina. Prompt was "Aftermath of a spell gone wrong."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red and Grey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlfromcarolina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/gifts).



> Thanks to lady_drace for suggestions and general cheerleading.

He’s busy trying to throw off three of the ghouls the hag’s set on them. He stabs one and throws it off with a grunt, sticky yellow blood gushing into his face. An arrow hits another one and it drops. He gives Allison a feral smile before finishing off the last one.

The rest of the ghouls are lying on the pavement, their throats or midsections slashed. Scott and Isaac are trying to catch their breath.

Derek and Peter have the hag cornered at the end of the blind alley. Her slitted green eyes dart from one to the other of them, before blue lightning crackles out at Peter.

Derek takes her down in the next instant, but Chris’ hunter instincts only notice this peripherally, because the lightning stops about six inches from Peter…

…and skips, jumping over to _him._

He goes down, red and blue lights flashing before his eyes.

***

When he comes to, Allison’s bending over him worriedly. He coughs, sits up. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” she demands. “When that stuff hit you–“

“I’m _fine_!” he repeats, struggling to his feet. “Anyone else hurt?”

He zeroes in on a cut on Allison’s cheek, reaching out to touch it gently. She flinches, but says, “It’s just a scratch. Not from one of the ghouls. I just banged my face trying for a tricky shot.”

Chris won’t let her move until he’s cleaned the wound and put a bandage on it. Scott got bitten by one of the ghouls, but werewolves are immune to their poison and it’s already healing. No one else got hit except him.

“What was that?” Allison demands as he presses the Band-Aid to her cheek. “Do you recognize the spell she threw at you?”

“Yes,” Chris lies, not wanting to worry her. “I just need to rest for a day or so.”

She squints at him for a long moment, then nods reluctantly.

Chris sends the rest of them off to get cleaned up. Derek gives him an unreadable look, but slouches off. In a few minutes he’s alone in the alley.

Well.

Alone except for the one person who _didn’t_ follow his suggestion.

“You have no clue what that spell was, do you?” Peter demands.

“No,” he says shortly, wiping off the last of his knives and putting it away.

“It could kill you, you know,” Peter says conversationally.

“I doubt it. If she wanted to kill me I’d already be dead.”

“Not necessarily,” Peter says, his eyes twinkling malevolently. “There’s lots of slow ways to kill people. Leprosy, gangrene, bleeding from the eyes–“

“Yes, thank you,” Chris cuts him off, “I get the picture.”

***

So they end up going to Deaton (since Peter seems to have decided that Chris is amusing, and even threats of imminent death won’t dissuade him).

“Hmmm,” Deaton says, looking through a musty old book. “You say it looked like blue lightning?”

“Yes,” Chris says. “And it bounced right off _him,_ ” he waves an arm at Peter, “and hit me instead.”

“Hmmm,” Deaton repeats.

“’Hmmm,’ _what_?!” Chris demands. He’s not exactly patient with Deaton’s dramatics at the best of times, and with an unknown spell on him, about to take effect (or already _in_ effect, who knows?) it’s not the best of times.

“I’m not familiar with this particular spell–” Deaton begins.

“Oh great, that’s just _fucking_ great!” Chris bursts out. “What use are you anyway?”

Deaton doesn’t take offense. “It doesn’t seem to have harmed you so far, but I’d suggest spending the next few days somewhere safe where you can’t harm anyone you care about.”

“There’s the basement at our old house,” Peter volunteers. “That’s secure.”

Chris bites his lip on the retort that a burned-out wreck can be called “secure,” because he can’t think of anything else.

***

So that’s how he ends up sitting on a cot in the basement of the Hale house, glaring at a smirking Peter Hale.

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account, I’m sure you’re busy,” he bites out.

“Oh no,” Peter says, leaning on the table in front of him, smirk turning into a full-on grin, “My schedule for this week is wide-open.”

Chris grinds his teeth and resists the temptation to shoot the man by pure force of will. Peter’s only helping him because he thinks the effects of the spell will be gruesome and/or entertaining. He’d really rather deal with it himself, but all his safehouses are meant to keep things _out_ , not in.

“You’re a smug, murderous bastard and I shouldn’t have let Derek kill you, since he botched the job.”

“Oh, he killed me just fine. He just didn’t reckon on my…creativity.”

Chris grinds his teeth. “I hate you.”

“I don’t much care.”

"I hate the way you have _no_ sense of family. I hate that you see codes of behavior as applying to other people. I hate that you see people as things to be used."

He'd intended to stop there, but to his horror he finds himself adding, "And I hate the fact that I'm attracted to you."

Peter looks briefly as shocked as Chris feels, but he soon recovers some of his aplomb. "Say that again?" he asks, as if Chris had just spoken too fast or too softly for him to hear, and not dropped a bomb in the room.

"I hate that I'm attracted to you," Chris repeats, the words forcing their way through gritted teeth even though he tries to keep them in.

"Really." Peter looks positively delighted now, and Chris silently curses the hag (because she has to be responsible for this somehow, dammit!), Peter Hale, and his own mouth.

“I wonder what your dear departed sister would think of that?” Peter asks conversationally, walking behind him.

Chris forces himself not to turn, but his neck is crawling. “She’d think I was crazy and put me down like any other monster.”

Peter darts around in front of him again. “That’s where you have it wrong. Werewolves aren’t _monsters._ ”

“Not all of them,” Chris agrees, and has the satisfaction of seeing Peter’s claws come out. Not the smartest thing to be taunting a proven-homicidal werewolf, but he’s sick of Peter’s shit.

Peter gets control of himself again and sneers. “You think you’re so noble, with your rules, your _code,_ ” he hisses, getting into Chris’ face.

He flinches back before he can stop himself.

“Where was your _code_ when that bitch murdered my family?!”

“Kate was insane. We didn’t know what she was doing!” Chris protests in spite of himself.

“The hell you didn’t!” Peter yells, sweeping boxes off the table to the floor. There’s a crash as something breaks. “You knew and you didn’t _care!_ Probably even helped her!”

Peter stalks toward him, his eyes glittering cold blue, and Chris is reminded again that he’s killed people.

Peter grabs hold of his shoulders, teeth gritted in rage, and shakes him. “ _You!_ Fucking hunters, if it weren’t for you my family would still be _alive_!”

He shoves him away and Chris stumbles, collapsing against the wall, as Peter swipes his wrist over his eye and comes to stand over him.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

Chris’ mind spins wildly for a moment, before hitting on the one thing that might save him. “Allison. I’m all she’s got. If you kill me, you’re no better than Kate, leaving orphans behind.”

Peter clenches his fists, then hauls on Chris’ arm, pulling him roughly to his feet, then pushing him to the other side of the room.

Chris debates leaving and checking into a hotel, since it seems like he’s under some sort of truth spell, which isn’t dangerous to anybody except himself, but he’s still afraid of something more insidious. He doesn’t go over to Peter, since even a pet will bite when cornered and wounded, and Peter is no one’s pet.

After a second of thought, he goes over and lies on the cot and closes his eyes, keeping his ears open for any movement from Peter. For a moment there’s nothing, then he hears footsteps and the door slam.

***

He doesn’t mean to, but he’s had a tiring day, both physically and mentally, and he falls asleep.

He’s not sure how long he’s been asleep when he wakes up, but there’s a plate of food on the table and a glass of water, along with an empty pitcher. Chris realizes he’s ravenous.

He finishes the food quickly, then decides to experiment a little.

“My name is Henry Fisher,” he says aloud. “I am twenty-six years old.”

Well, it seems he has no problem lying when he’s alone. For that matter, he’d lied to Allison when he told her that he knew what the spell was. Does he only have to tell Peter the truth? That’s a more-than-usually-sadistic punishment.

Peter seems to have lost interest in him for the moment, although the food is there, so someone’s feeding him.

He gets up to poke around the basement, wishing that he’d thought to bring a book.

***

For the next three days he’s mostly alone, although Peter does come by to give him food, barely saying two words to him.

That’s fine with him. He certainly doesn’t _want_ to talk to Peter. But it turns out sitting all day with nothing to do and no human contact takes more out of him that he’d realized.

So one day, when Peter’s about to leave, he foolishly grabs his shoulder.

Peter rounds on him, but instead of pushing him away he grabs hold of Chris’ shoulders and crashes their mouths together.

Chris has a split-second to wonder what the hell he’s doing, then he’s wrestling Peter’s jacket off as Peter shoves him toward the cot.

Peter unzips his jeans and pulls him out, and it’s not delicate, it’s not gentle, but Chris is already hardening, biting at whatever skin he can reach.

“Fuck you,” Peter spits, still savagely jerking him.

“I hate you,” Chris responds as he arches up, coming into Peter’s fist.

He gasps through it, then shoves Peter around until he’s sitting on the bed, yanks his jeans open, drops to his knees and sucks him down.

Peter grabs onto his hair, scratching at his scalp, but it’s with human nails, so Chris ignores it.

What follows is Peter attempting to steer his movements and Chris resisting fiercely, bobbing his head up and down at his own damn pace, until finally Peter pushes against his throat, gagging him until he swallows reflexively.

Peter lets him pull off after that, managing a ghost of his usual smirk.

“Well, that was unexpected.”

Chris just buries his face in his hands.


End file.
